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the old men really do be feeding us on their insta stories today

#my heart is doing a #a certain feeling #styx #styxblr #styxposting #tommy shaw #lawrence gowan

I feel like I’m constantly yearning for something.

#a certain feeling #a change #just SOMETHING

Going from

"I'm planning on getting a phd!"

" I'll be lucky if I graduate high-school"

#i dont have to fucking ecplain myself #a certain feeling

🥺🫂

#a longing #a yearning #a miss #a warmth #a certain feeling #a safe place

Take a seat, this is going to be one of those bitter stories, but I promise as soon as the slow poison sets in, everything will seem sweet and charming, as you wait, as you pace, for nothing, or something, as you get touched by every glimpse of recollective affection, but stay untouchable, as you participate just enough to be forgotten, on purpose, you try to bury yourself alive, little by little so no one else will notice, you've dug yourself a cozy little hole and told yourself to lay very still in a box until everyone forgets you exist, because you've done enough, or too much, and you don't want to be a part of any more stories, you'd rather have the certainty of sinking than losing direction over floating, it's a quiet disposition, the one that roots in the mind, as you go back to work or the coffee shop or run till your heart can't keep up, anything to run further from the hope of it all, or the lack there of, and the pushes and pulls are the only things you've known since, where all the work to anchor yourself down just goes and washes you back up ashore, letting the light only hit you at your worst, and you take it, you take the burn as a cure, as a motive for movement, and you take the shared sorrows and joys as an opening, only to come back home to nothing, and you're reminded you own nothing, or nothing owns you, so you start over again, and try to go back to disappearing in a comfort shade, because you told yourself what's the point of being something, when you can be everything else.

#words #text #concept #series #a certain feeling #hope #or the lack there of #disposition #i want to be forgotten #the less you remember of me #the more i can be now

Catherine Kennedy cannot sleep. It is not something she is capable of, but she dreams all the same. Perfectly awake and yet lost in the neverworld of the dreamtime. Her mind spirals in concentric fractal patterns, her dream a Julia set of illogic. Fair ferns of the subconscious reach up towards the light of truth.

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There is a hole at the bottom of the universe. A place where reality folds in upon itself and disappears. Every stumbling gyration of the cosmos brings it closer to falling through and out the other side. The end is but a misstep away.

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All of existence spreads out before her. An expanse of light; the saccharine nuclear riot of an ever-dying star. There is a castle on the hill and a fire in the sky and the sunset turns a shade of purple that never existed.

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Polyphemus dreams he is a moth. His wings are wide and he flies forever and his antennae see what they will and he has no mouth and he starves and he dies. When he awakes, there will be a tear in his blind eye.

The Polyphemus Moth dreams it is a cyclops. Its body is large and its eye sees far and it is deceived by the traveler and it is blinded. When it awakes it will not have the mental faculty to know that it was dreaming.

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Thoughts expand down, down, down into the underpinnings of reality, spreading across the breadth of all that is. Orgone orchids rise from fractal fractures in the firmament. A pandemonium of plutonian lilies explode into rune-etched knucklebones and foresee the never-end of time. The inanimate seers tumble down the gravity well and meet the event horizon where it stands. Aesacian argonauts that know the end and see it named, that pass through the singularity unscathed and all the wiser. Catherine knows the answer to their questions but she cannot respond. Her being is reflected back upon itself and cannot see the light. She opens an umbrella against the acid rain and nightmares spill out.

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A moth and a cyclops sit on the edge of oblivion and watch—though one cannot hear and the other cannot see—as Fortune plucks upon the latitude lines of her lyre heart in melody for the lost things fallen beyond. The sky above is nothing but stars and the one below only darkness. The heavens join her in chorus as she plays, and a dream screams its way down the gravity well.

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Catherine is spinning. She can’t stop her assailants and she braces herself against the solar winds. She would that it would end, but she was never asleep. She passes the event horizon and it tears her apart. She spins and screams and reality reaches a crescendo and the singularity rises in her sight. Catherine has gone too far not of her own volition the universe expands before her in silhouette the singularity is dark dark dark—

And the dream collapses.

#writing #a Certain Feeling